Trouble in Paradise
by Black-Death
Summary: Whoever said that happily ever afters were the 'end all, be all' of great tales? Het- Will and Jocelyn, Slash- Chaucer and Wat
1. Prologue

  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own anything of, or remotely pertaining to A  
Knight's Tale. If I do, most of the cast in the movie would probably  
be gay. So there.  
  
Rating: PG-13 to eventual NC-17 (tastefully done, of course)  
  
Pairing(s): Chaucer and Wat, Will and Jocelyn  
  
Archivable? Hell yes! ^_~  
  
  
And now, without further adieu-do...  
  
  
**  
Troubles In Paradise  
  
  
  
Prologue**  
  
  
  


It hadn't even been three years since the famed 'Lord Ulrich' had won his lady fair, and already there was trouble brewing in paradise.

Or maybe a better phrase I should use would be 'storming'.

 Not that it's really any of my business and all, I mean I'm just his former squire, and honestly don't have any place in mulling over the poor bloke's personal life.  But whenever I see 'im standing there, that wounded, doe-eyed look planted on his face that he gets only when his Lady's displeased with 'im, I just feel this queer, motherly need to go over and shove his face full 'a cream puffs and a good pint of ale to ease his pains. (At least, that's what works for me when I'm chewing on something tough.)

It's not like our Will to be so bloody unoptimisitic. Believe me,  that's saying something when William Thatcher, believer, dreamer-extraordinaire, former squire like Yours Truly, and would-be-knight that somehow, by some amazing stroke of fool luck, managed to get exactly what he wanted, gets depressed.

I'm not talking about the pouty, lovers-quarrel type 'a depressed, but the real deal. 

The bloke can't even stand the sight of 'imself in the mirror anymore, that's how bad it's got. Some days Roland'll even coax me into trying to talk some sense into him, maybe convince 'im to go out for a good 'ol fashioned night-on-the-town like we used to when we hadn't a care in the world 'cept accumulation of the coin we earned that week, or when it was we'd eat next. Pitiful thing it is when all he'll do is shake his head all moppy-like and pretend like he doesn't hear you, or mumble to himself about 'that woman' like you're not even in the bloomin' room anymore.

I've given up, Roland's certainly given up, and Kate's even given up; she's a woman for Christ's sake. They love squeezing words out 'o us until the blood spurts from our ears. Like talking really helps much.

Oh damn, I didn't mean to use the Lord's name in vain. Oh shite, I said 'damn', didn't I?

Ugh,  I should probably just stop thinking all together. My dear mum always said I was better with my fists then my brains, anyway. A remarkable scots woman, she was, and packed a brawny fist like no other. If I didn't inherit her red hair and temper, it had to definitely be that last she was known for.

Bear with me ladies and 'gents, I wouldn't be losing my train of thought and thinking at all for the life of me, if I didn't have such an important story to tell.

Er, at least an interesting one, anyway. 

I'm no writer or poet 'o 'course,  not like that limp-wristed, bug-eyed, smug little nonce that's still constantly loosing 'is cloths to gambling to this very day. No, I'm your average, run-of-the-mill englishman that just happens to have the right connections and some right good friends. Though Geoff _did_ tell me that I've got a certain...er, how was it that Miss Fancy Pants had said it? Oh, I remember! A certain "plebian charm with words. Simple and utterly, loathesomely straightforward and to the point."

Don't really know what that means for sure, but he doesn't need to know that. Sounds pretty though, whatever it was. I think it might've been the first compliment he's ever given me.

Oh, but I'm losing sight of my tale again. Alright, take a deep breath and start at the begining, Wat. I mean, where else would you start, it's not like you could start at the end and make the end your beginning, then go to the beginning and make that your end, that'd just be stupid. You gotta start at the _beginning_ beginning, or else no one'll get it, not the _end_ beginining...


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

"Why you barmy, impish ponce! I _told_ you that if you _ever _did that _again_ I'd-"

"Yes, yes, you'll fong me. How many times have you said that by now to realize that it has to be bloody well impossible that I don't know it, yet? I'll slap your damnable naked arse whenever it pleases me, thank you very much, master Fawlhurst. You keep leaving it exposed, so what logical deduction do I have to draw upon, but that it must be open invitation?"

Wat felt his face flush scarlet as he shut his mouth up angrily, momentarily sputtering in astonishment at the writer's advances. He fought the urge to rub his stinging arse, of which he predicted would be a lovely shade of black and blue come morning. 

"I was taking a piss before you strutted in, you blimey peacock. And just what do you think you're doing, sneaking up on a man when his breeches are down?"

A small vicious smile came to Geoff's lips, fitting his arrogant posture too well. "It doesn't matter. As I told you before when I caught you down by the river swimming in your skivvies: I'll do it again, if you keep flaunting that thing around me. It...irritates me."

Wat felt more then heard a squack of indignation arise from his throat. "You cheeky bastard, it's not as though I'm deliberately putting it on display! You're the one that picks the most inopportune moments to-"

When their peculiar relationship had started, there'd been actual physical violence and a keen disliking for one another; anyone who knew the two could attest well to that. However, as the months had drifted by, a tremulous bond of sorts had been founded, where upon the physical abuses Wat and Geoff would suffer each other dwindled considerably, all but disappearing save for their playful wrestlings, and friendly pushing and shoving. Such 'attacks' were becoming more of a frequent occurence, seemingly filled with some kind of intent on the writer's part. Though as to what that intention was, Wat had yet to figure it out.

It first had begun in jest, or what to Wat was merely jest. Kate had cornered him one night and had flat-out told him to be careful with Geoff, for some inexplicable reason. There'd been a gleam in her sharp eyes, as though she alone had possessed a knowledge that he had thus far been oblivious to. In fact, now that he thought of it, everyone seemed to have that knowledge in their eyes whenever they would happen to observe the two of them together, it seemed. And it remained there, whether they were engaged in their usual quarreling, or merely some of their normal banter.

Chaucer apparently had it too, or so Wat was coming to realize. There were mornings when Wat would be rubbing the remants of sleep from his eyes, stretching to relieve his stiff muscles, and then he'd roll over, only to catch the other man in the room with him, his piercing gaze carefully evaluating, as though he were scrutinizing every inch of his person. It was incredibly unnerving, the intensity of that stare, and made his skin crawl, though not unpleasantly. 

"-and it's just terribly inconvenient. You red-haired harpy, are you even listening to a word I'm saying?"

Something Wat didn't care to analyze too much.

 "Hello, anyone in there?"

Squire Fawlhurst jerked his head up, forcibly pulling himself from his own musings. He'd been doing that a lot lately, and it wasn't helping matters between the blonde-haired rogue and himself. 

"Uh, yes. Yes, I am. Fine, just don't bloody well do it again, alright? You're acting rather odd lately, more so than usual, and I'm not sure what to make 'o it."

Geoff peered up at him incredulously. "I'm acting odd? _I'm acting odd_? Look at you, you thick-skulled little _GIRL_! Ah-ah-ah! Don't you hit me, I'm going to insult you properly. Haven't you noticed the way you've been behaving towards me, the looks you've been sending in my direction? You'd have to be a bloody innocent _virgin_ to be so coy and not aware of it! You know well and truly what it is that I'm referring to-"

Wat screwed up his face in imcomprehension. "Horseshite if I've been doing anything of the sort to you. And what does being a damned _virgin_ have anything to do with this?"

The writer continued to look at the squire in amazement. It was as though Wat had suddenly sprouted three heads, and Geoff couldn't quite be sure which one he should focus his attention on.

"You're telling me that you're a virgin, then? I don't believe it, it's ridiculous for a man of your-"

Wat snorted. "Of course I'm not a virgin, you bugger. I'd had my fair share of women, I'll have you know. I also hold a fairly decent reputation in the sack. Don't believe me? Go ask the local brothels if you're so bleedin' insistent. But I still don't understand what this has to do wi-"

He trailed off as soon as his ears picked up the startled, almost choking sound of a gasp coming from between the other's lips. Chaucer was turning blue, thumping his chest with his fist in a valiant, though obviously vain, effort to breathe again.

Scrambling into action, Wat jumped behind the other and slammed his palm between the shoulder blades before him, sending Geoff falling half-hazard toward the wooden floor. Perhaps that hadn't worked out as it should have.

"Geoff! You fool, are you alright?" Wat asked hesitantly, kneeling and placing a tentative hand on the shoulder of the man who was presently sucking in lungfuls of air between unintelligable mutterings of speech before him.

"-can't believe it...you-of all men a-bloody...virgin....this...impossible..."

Patience only stretching so far, as well as maternal instinct, Wat ran a hand through his hair in frustration, brow furrowing in mystification.

"But I'm not a virgin, you idiot. I already told you that. For the love of God, you can't bloody well breathe,and you're going on about sexual history! Just shut up and inhale you useless dolt!"

Geoff pulled himself up from his undignified heap on the floor, shaking his head in...amusment? Sometimes Wat truly couldn't understand the man. Wait, correction. He _never _could understand the man.

"No, no, you beautiful imecile. There are other ways to be a...didn't know-I could have sworn, in fact. You have the mannerisms, the attitude...stop looking at me like that! I could have sworn that you'd already known about your personal pref-"

 Had Geoff just called him _beautiful_?

Nodding his head in feigned acceptance so the other would shut up, it was in that instant that Wat decided once and for all that the man before him was teetering on the brink of madness. He'd never thought he'd survive to see the day where Geoff, wondrous commander of the english language and glorious public speaker that he was, would be reduced to a pile of inarticulate mad ravings. He didn't believe it to be possible. Words to Chaucer were like day is to night.

Fortunately for the sake of  _his_ sanity, Roland emerged from the backroom of their estate, carrying a large pitcher of wine for what appeared to be company soon to arrive.

"What're you two ruffians screaming about in here? I could hear you through the walls, Christ; almost decided to box my own ears. No matter, though, we'll be entertaining William and Jocelyne tonight, so get yer filthy selves looking presentable. You know Will isn't used to the sight of dirt anymore, least of all 'is Lady."

The tense atmosphere that hung so heavy around them began to dissipate, and Wat felt his muscles relax in relief. 

However, to his bewilderment, the golden-haired man beside him abruptly seemed possessed of the highest spirits, an ecstatic, nigh moronic grin breaking out across his features. That had to have been the best Wat had seen him looking in months.

Yes. Wat was assured of his suspicions now. The man's body was being inhabited by the devil himself.

"Ah, but of course, my rotund companion. I'll be ever the chivalrous knight, as our beloved Lord would expect. Perhaps a bath, would be in order? After I've finished you may make use of it as well, master Fawlhurst."

With that, the bloody dandy left the room, poking Roland in the gut on the way out and casting a...no, it couldn't have been a _lascivous_ wink over in Wat's direction. 

Wat stared after his retreating form in wonderment, puzzling over the whole episode.

**Author's Notes: I crave feedback. I eat it for breakfast. If you want to see more of this story, you'll spoon feed it to me.**


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

The Lady Jocelyn sat pondering at her vanity, unraveling the coif she'd sported for the evening's merry-making.

"Will, there is something I'd like to ask you. I've noticed it before, but haven't mustered up the curiosity to truly take interest in it."

The said knight turned from his ministrations, pulling the coverlet back and looking toward is wife in inquiry.

"What a surprise Fox. You're usually so keen on figuring things out for yourself you don't need the assistance of others. So, to what do I owe such pleasure?"

She gave an unlady-like snort at his teasing smile. "Even someone as brilliant as myself does have minor flaws...but to come straight to the question, why does Lord Chaucer appear to be so keen upon perusing our dear Wat?"

Her husband frowned, not understanding. "Perusing? As in chasing? What do you speak of?"

She laughed and rose from the stool, coming to sit beside Will upon their marriage bed. She took his hand, tracing the beloved knuckles with a soothing caress. Lowering her voice, she gave in to the urge to kiss the corner of those wry lips, accentuated by the flickering of the candlelight.

"What I am trying to say, if you would only stop being so thick, is that I see a romantic intention in Geoffrey toward a certain former squire of yours."

Will sat, dumbfounded, scowling something fierce at the wall across from him. His wife smiled mischievously, whispering softly into his ear. "If you'll stop intimidating that poor wall over there, will you be so good as to answer my question?"

It seemed a tremendous strain to grate out each word from between his teeth, but somehow William managed it. "Are you telling me that you believe...you _think_...Wat isn't a bloody ponce, Joce!" spitting out that last, he refused t acknowledge the very large possibility that he was blushing like a maid.

Jocelyn couldn't refrain from the laughter, a sweet, girlish giggling bubbled up from her chest, one that left her husband further confounded.

"Oh, My Heart, the _look_ upon your face! I'm sorry for the shock, but I do wonder. Have you not recognized it before? I don't see how you haven't; they're absolutely mad for each other, though I do believe only one of them knows it yet!"

Shaking his head at his wife's gaiety, Will unceremoniously flopped down upon a pillow, the mattress creaking slightly beneath the added weight. He waited until the she had calmed, though her eyes still glinted   with devilish candor.

"Pray tell, how did you ever come by such information? It surely wasn't from polite conversation that you picked up such rubbish.  For a lady to even know of what two men sometimes take fancy to do together....it's not right!"

Jocelyn's demeanor grew serious, her mouth twisting in an obstinate manner. Will was in for chastising, and he knew that it couldn't be avoided. "Oh, honestly, William. Please tell me that you, of all men who have struggled for great things, are not pigheaded about something as trivial as this. It doesn't change who either of them are, just adds one more dimension to the men you already know so well."

Turning over as a petulant child would, William Thatcher groaned, burying his face into the blankets as to shun the rest of the world.

"What was that? I'm sorry, dear, but I couldn't make sense of your unintelligible muttering."

"I said: 'No, I don't truly mind about the nature of their bond, but I don't want to be in the middle of the colossal fray if anything goes wrong.'"

Shaking her head amicably, the Lady curled up next to her lord, laying her head upon his pleasantly warm breast. "Do not quibble over it, Will. I don't believe that Wat and Geoff are two men that would ever needlessly involve anyone else in their relationship with one another, unless it was absolutely necessary. Now go to sleep and dream of fighting with large muscle-bound men with even larger sticks like the good lad you are."

Will chuckled, brown eyes twinkling with something other than contentment. "Am I mistaken, or is there a sexual connotation to that..."

_Wack!_

"Sweet Jesus! Woman that hurt."

"I know I intended it to. Go to sleep, William."

"How ever did I come to wed such a malicious harpy as you? God, I must have been out of my mind-"

_Wack!_

"Damnation, Jocelyn, I'm only jesting! Can't you just have some compa-"

"_Go to sleep, Will!_"

He slept.

***

Though physically exhausted from the events and conversations he'd just partaken of naught but three hours ago, Wat found that it was nearly impossible for him to relax in his bed. After trying many a position, and fumbling with his sheets for what felt as though the hundredth time, he succumbed to the inevitable.

He was going for a jaunt around the courtyard. Perhaps that would combat his jittery nerves into submission.

Creeping softly through the halls on bare feet, he shivered at the cold draft he felt at his back. With any luck, the stars would be out tonight; at least he'd have that to look forward to.

He exited the estate, the cold, crisp wind renewing his vigor and bringing a flush of color to his cheeks. Strolling about the garden was sometimes such a pleasure he often wondered if it should be deemed sinful. When the night lilies would bloom, and the scent of jasmine would begin to permeate the air, Wat sincerely believed that there wasn't a man or woman living that could resist the allure that the scene provided. He himself knew that every time he allowed his guard to slip out here, alone and at peace, his heart would grow amorous, and he would find himself thirsting for a good rut with the nearest harlot he could find.

All in all, a rather dangerous place.

It had been when he began making his way over to the thicket of myrtle trees that he knew he was not alone. There was someone skulking about behind the granite fountain, and if the former squire Fawlhurst had anything to say about it, the ragamuffin wouldn't be doing so for long.

Feeling the affects of unease grip his heart, he bristled as the hair stood on end at the nape of his neck. Wat felt as every muscle in his body began to harbor tension, waiting for a reaction or reason to fight or flee. 

Reluctant to ever be called a coward, he piped up, attempting to put a note of menace into this voice. "Show yourself! Whoever you are! _Show yourself or prepare to be fonged within an inch of your life_!"

Whoever was spying him on the other side of the fountain let loose a chortle, giving away his presence. It seemed to be farther now, as though the intruder were moving off into the relative camouflage of the trees. 

Wat suddenly was possessed with the realization that his adversary was going to jump the garden wall if he didn't get a hold of his own fears, and on a near savage impulse, howled with an abandon rarely shown by any Roman gladiator, and rushed the almost clear outline of his victim against the foliage.

There was an 'oompf!' of pained exaltation as the figure fell to the ground, though he nimbly jumped out of the way when Wat scurried to grab the man about the ankle. Spitting out mud that chanced to find its way into his gasping mouth, the red-haired man put up a devil of a fight, fingers curling cruelly into the soft flesh of the man's lower calves. 

"Damn you, rascal, get the bloody hell off of me!"

An incredulous pause from the dirtied red-head.

"Geoff? Is that you, you great cow?"

Wat could almost taste the rancor on his tongue with which the man responded.

"A cow? Do I honestly look like a tossing _cow_ to you?"

Wat considered this solemnly for quite awhile.

"Oh for God's sake, fool, release your grubby paws from my beautiful ankles. I have better things to do than wallow about here in the mud with a mad man."

Chaucer shook his foot free from the other's grasp, wrapping his cloak more tightly about himself and gathering the satchel that he'd dropped when accosted by Wat.

"What do you have in there anyway? A severed hand?"

Without missing a beat, the writer sneered. "No, a head actually. And not the kind that sits atop your shoulders."

Appalled, Wat stepped back, hand moving instinctively toward his groin in sympathy. "Must you make such jests? That's somethin' that I'll be thinking about for the rest of the week."

The first genuine smile of since their interlude began tugged at Geoffrey's lips. "Oh, but you do know that you thoroughly love my sarcastic wit, Squire Fawlhurst. I dare say that I may teach you to love some other things that you've yet to learn of me as well."

Cocking his head to the side slightly, Wat pondered on this. _What was the man getting at? Must he always be so puzzling with his fancy talk and pomp?_

"Er...right. Anyways, where did you think you're going with that, and at this hour?"

Geoff smirked, an air of swarthiness about him that Wat was finding increasingly difficult to ignore. "To gamble in the village taverns, where else?"

He cast a black scowl at that man in front of him, standing so nonchalantly, a stranger might have thought that he owned the world.

"Truly, at this hour?"

"Do not act the part of my mother, friend, it doesn't suit you. So if we are quite finished with this tête-à-tête, I must off. You're perfectly willing to join me, of course, if you can keep your fists to yourself for the remainder of the evening."

It was more than obvious the blonde man was using this as an 'out' for Wat, not at all expecting for him to comply with his suggestion.

That was just what Wat was waiting for. No one would ever say that he was a predictable old dodger!

"Fine, then. I guess it's only proper that I might keep a bit 'o an eye on you, as you have a pen chancy for getting yourself into all sorts of mayhem. Lead the way, Geoff."

Wat would forever relish the look of shock that had plastered itself onto his companion's features as they made their way over the courtyard's wall and stole into the village streets, though he would eventually come to hold dearer the feel of the other's hand as it kept fortuitously brushing against his.

**Author's Notes: I'll say it once, and I'll say it again: feedback is the air I breathe, the food I eat, and the love of my heart. Grant me this desire and I'll grant yours.**


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

When they had finally reached the writer's intended destination, Wat wasn't at all astonished to find that it was the tavern that was regarded to hold the most unscrupulous reputation in their province of the English countryside.

_Leave it to the likes of that poofter to gamble in the worst place he can find_, Wat surmised, sighing inwardly.

Even Wat, a man that considered himself a 'bloke with experience' was quite uneasy with the prospect of entering a pub that was infamous for its sordid activity. The unpleasant thought was weighing harshly upon his better judgment.

His preposterously animated chum, however, to his eternal chagrin, waltzed in without preamble, as though the building just happened to be his private town-house.

Realizing that his companion wasn't following, Geoff poked his head out of the doorway with the expression that Wat had patented as a classical 'shite-eating-grin', eyes showing brightly with mock concern.

"Come now, isn't this a treat? Tell me, is my dear, brash, addle-brained harpy showing a smidgen of uncertainty? My, but you do reek of an insipid lack of spine, friend."

Wat scowled at the deliberate provocation. This time logic won out and he refused to take the jibe.

"Are you daft? Touched in the head, maybe? We can't go in there, it'd be bloody suicide! Only the scummiest of the scum go in_ there_. Only the maddest of the mad, the filthiest of the filt-"

Chaucer sneered imperiously, rolling his eyes heavenward. "And probably only the twitiest of the twits if I end up letting you walk in there. Sweet Christ, don't be so damned fretful, you're beginning to remind me of my mother. Strange woman that one, had a darker mustache than my father ever had."

Wat paused in his babbling tirade, justly disturbed. "What?"

"uh…pay that last no heed."

"Right."

Scratching his head, the writer groaned, not bothering to hide the fact that he was anxious to stop loitering upon the front stoop of the establishment.

"So are we sallying forth, or no?"

The redhead crossed his brawny arms over his breast, shaking his head.

"Oh no, _we're_ not, but you can."

"So you're telling me that you're leaving me to the beasts then, as you all but called them? Those large, rather frightening, ape-like men sporting engravings of big women upon their biceps? The ones with hair protruding out from their nostrils and the blood of the innocent staining their hands?"

_Where does the bugger get his material_? Wat wondered, vaguely perturbed.

"Yes."

Geoff stared at him quizzically for a moment, the lantern behind his head faintly outlining his lank silhouette in the night.

Then he shrugged and plodded inside.

Blinking once, then twice more, Wat stood dumbfounded.

_The bastard had actually left him out here alone!_

Not wanting to compromise his hide out alone in the darkness, Wat, courageous sort that he was, clambered up the stoop and stumbled into the tavern, leaving the moon outside to bear the only witness of his alarm.

The whore's inviting breath ghosted over Chaucer's right cheek while her tongue left a fire brand of liquid heat upon his ear lobe, a valiant though hopeless attempt to solicit lust where there was none.

Despite this, though, Geoff did not extricate her from the comfort of his lap. While his preferences ran toward the masculine in nature, he was not above resorting to the pleasures that could be afforded by the female body.

But that wasn't the case with this one.

The sole purpose she provided now was appearance, a neatly contrived façade that would put the handsome Master Fawlhurst in a compromising (and he hoped jealous) position, especially since they were now in an atmosphere that did nothing to halt the proliferation of the erotic.

Geoff lifted a slender hand to his tankard of ale, thin but sensual mouth curling secretively above the brim of the cup. His eyes danced as they beheld the object of his affections.

_There_, his heart whispered. _There he sits, oblivious to my true intentions, gambling mostly to appease me._

It was almost enough to make him feel as though he were committing a crime; an act of corruption.

"Yer turn, Red. You roll."

The writer watched speculatively as the redheaded man took his try. The men they were keeping company with had long since abandoned his hand in the game, in all likelihood believing he'd grown too preoccupied with the woman sitting prettily atop his leather-clad thighs.

He didn't care, though. It presented him with that much more of a justifiable excuse to engross himself with his favorite activity: observing Wat.

Returning to his musing, Chaucer mulled over his last thoughts, contemplating if he really was in fact committing some type of dire betrayal of the trust and sanctity of their relationship.

He stopped that notion where it began, and tried to enjoy the glide of the harlot's lips along the column of his throat.

No, this passion he harbored wasn't one of evil intentions. Quite the contrary, Geoff knew, for it was to him the purest thing he'd sought after in his life thus far, pure as a mother's love for her child (well, perhaps not that pure), as unsullied as that of a lord for his lady, or the religious man for his god.

Oh, he had loved many times before, of course. He would be a liar if he had said that he hadn't as many lovers at one point in his life as he had digits upon his two hands and feet. The conquests Geoffrey had pursued in his wilder days proved that he had been searching for something then, perhaps the need for fulfillment that he didn't think he needed now. That search had ended when he'd met Wat and the others.

Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel as though this yearning were different from what the others had been. Those had all been impossible loves. With Wat, however, he didn't long for the idea of a 'perfect' love, idealistically believing the other could bestow that to him. No, he merely pined for the man himself, the man seated across from him.

Here was the man with the crown of hair the color of flame. The man with the thick brogue that would only rear its Celtic head when he would fly into a tantrum, lending irrefutable proof of his Irish origins. The man that would inexhaustibly insist that he'd 'fong him within an inch of his life' if Chaucer stole his cream pastries again, though he would continue to do so just because it was routine. The man that could be a perfect gentleman in that simple, uncouth way that only the lower classes possessed that could make one feel as though an emperor or empress. The man that would wake Geoff up, screaming in the dead of night that he hadn't dumped the chamber pot's contents out of the window and that it was overflowing on the oak floor.

That was the man that he wanted to possess, that he wanted to be possessed by in turn.

_Surely it is unmistakable now, Geoff_, he considered to himself, chuckling softly as he continued to watch Wat.

_You honestly have gone mad._

Wat was furious and stupendously drunk.

Not the best of combinations, yes, but it couldn't be helped. What was more, he was swiftly becoming further enraged the more he concentrated on the staircase that Chaucer had climbed up with that sodding vixen of his well over an hour ago, presumably to do all sorts of shadowy sexual deeds that Wat really didn't want to know about.

No, he didn't want to know at all. No, not at all.

Not. At. _All_.

And that was exactly why he was sitting there, ruminating over how much he hated that scruffy-headed buffoon at the moment.

Because he didn't want to see all of the things that Geoff was probably doing with his body, all of the positions he most likely had that wench contorted into.

Because he didn't wish to linger over, let alone admit how much he envied that trollop at present.

"You did'na just think that," Wat rasped, his tongue thick with alcohol and the never-quite-diminished accent of his forefathers.

"He's prolly avin' the frolic 'o his life right 'bout now", he slurred, watching the fire in the tavern's hearth lick the stones with a kind of whimsical fascination that could only be attributed to the most steadfastly devout of drunks.

It was puzzling these emotions coursing through his body. He had no idea what to do with them, a trait which made them all the more dangerous for someone as prone to spontaneous action as Wat was.

Reaching across the table, he picked up the tankard with jerky movements, praying for the siren call of acrid liquid sloshing about in its base.

Lady Fortune never did take pity on the intoxicated.

"Oh, toss it all" he mumbled, hailing the proprietor with a wave of his hand.

Fawlhurst nodded his head back just in time to catch the unfocused vision of a balding, leathery-faced man with a tin pitcher of what he assumed was ale coming toward him.

"You've been here awhile, haven't you? Just how many pints have you had, lad?"

Wat held up his hands, widening his eyes and rapidly blinking to clear the haze from his line of sight. _Why was the room spinning_?

He held up three fingers.

"Only three pints? Hell, a strapping young chap like you should be able to handle _that._ Or was there more?"

A look of confusion overcame the squire's rumpled face. "Only a wee bit more, I think."

"Just how much is a '_wee_' bit more?"

The redhead thought about that for a time, furrowing his brow with the travail of staying on track. "Mmmmh…six…erm…eleven, no…fifteen."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" the blurred figure exclaimed, whistling with no small amount of admiration. "You're an Irish, aren't you?"

Wat sniffed. _How did they gues_s?

"Mayhap I'll just leave the pitcher with you, boy. It looks as though you could use it."

Wat grunted and dropped his head unceremoniously to the table, promptly passing out in the midst of the tavern's boisterous revelry, the pitcher of ale he was nursing at his elbow his sole friend for the time being.

As the night wore on and as Geoff started trudging down the stairs, he noticed that the more respectable of the tavern's patrons, if that was indeed what you could reckon them, had left for their own beds, while the seediest of the clientele remained, carrying on just as loudly as ever.

Yawning, he stretched his stiff limbs, scratching the burgeoning patch of stubble that had begun to grow about his chin.

_You are nothing but an inconceivably self-deluded fool, Geoffrey Chaucer_, he reintegrated to himself for the umpteenth time. _The man is as likely to grow jealous over that transparent charade as he is to abruptly declare his clandestine love for small furry rodents._

He really should have taken the woman up on her offer. But of course he, like the besotted lovesick arse that he was inevitably on the verge of becoming, ended up paying for use of the room for a nap rather than any of the usual 'hospitality' it was employed for. The things love could do to a man were just nauseating.

Oh, but he sincerely wished that Wat was jealous, else his labors of love be a travesty.

Squinting about the room, he found that he couldn't make out the object of his misery anywhere in the crowd.

"Wat? _Wat_? Where in God's Kingdom have you disappeared to?"

It was just as he was beginning to lose heart that he spotted the reason for the sheer magnitude of the noise level that was threatening to implode his ear drums.

There, in the smallest corner in the darkest section of the pub, the five abominably well-muscled men that he and Wat and gambled with were gradually closing in on the obviously drunk, albeit obviously terrified figure of his cowering companion.

Multiple shouts of 'Kill 'im' as well as raucous laughter was audible from nearly every direction as the rest of the tavern's audience made the move to investigate the curious spectacle unfolding before them. Apparently entertainment of that ilk didn't happen too often around here, something that Geoff found to be very surprising.

Pushing and shoving his way through the mob, he sprinted the last few feet to the place that his would-be-lover was being held captive, tapping one of the muscle-bound beasts upon the shoulder.

"Excuse me, but I would like to have a word with this man before you squeeze his innards out through his arse and make him the first human pastry. That is, if you don't mind of course."

The grizzly man eyed him calculatingly, pondering over his demand.

"What do ye need ta see 'im fer? Best be playin' no tricks, now, er ye'll be made into a grease stain upon this there floor jus' like yer frien' there's about ta be."

"Oh no, of course not. I am a man of God, I wouldn't entertain the notion of deceiving another soul in my life."

Another hulk of a man spoke up, this one more suspicious than the last. "A man of God, you say? You don't look like any priest I've ever lain eyes upon."

Chaucer did his best to be convincing, smiling with as much holy serenity as he could muster. "I'm still in training at the university. Now if you'll please step aside, I must give this man his last rites."

He managed to sidle up to the garishly pale Wat, lowering his voice to a whisper as well as attempting to look priestly doing so for the rest of his closely scrutinizing spectators.

"How the bloody hell did you get yourself into this position? I've only been indisposed for little over two hours, and what do I find on my return? You, caged in by veritable trolls salivating over who's going to be the first to eat your liver!"

His sobering friend turned leery eyes to his face, narrowing them dubiously in light of the grim situation.

"I was accused of cheatin' that's what! While I damned well know that I didn't, I've sure got a bloody good idea of just _who _did!."

Chaucer felt the blood flee from his face and the pit of his stomach lurch sickeningly.

_He'd been so confident he could get away with it this time…_

"Oh, Christ. I…I'm so sorry, Wat, I-"

"I don't care how bleedin' sorry you are right now, you great oaf, just get us out of this tavern!"

"Alright then, on the count of three, we're going to rush the smaller man-"

"Smaller man?! Their all the same bloody size!"

"-fine, the third gorilla on your left. After that, we'll run up the stairs. Turn to your right and head into the second room, it's unlocked, that's the one I was, mmmh…occupying. There's going to be a window that overlooks the building's parapet. We'll do our utmost best to climb down from there."

"That's the best you have?"

"Do you have any better suggestions, Master Fawlhurst?" the writer spat.

"No. One question though."

"You'd be wise to make it quick, they're growing impatient."

"What's a gorilla?"

"You ignorant, unworldly little country man."

"Are ye done yet? It's been my 'sperience tha the last rites don't take tha long."

Wat and Geoff exchanged a fleeting glance of panic.

"Alright, one…two…two and a half…two and three quarters…whatever happens, you're still a wench…_THREE_!"

With a burst of adrenaline they had rarely known before in their lives, the two men plowed head on into one of their advancers, tripping him up and bringing him crashing to the ground with a beleaguered 'arrrg!'of shock.

Panting, they surged up the stairs, knocking a few indignant whores accidentally into the walls in the process. The blonde man opened the door with a speed that couldn't be repeated even if he'd tried, and slammed it shut just as quickly, hearing the nails groan in their rusted, unkempt hinges.

"You first, you go through the window," Chaucer heaved, out of breath.

Wat wasn't about to refuse the offer.

He all but hurled himself from the thing, jumping onto the parapet as planned and shimmying down the straw roof of the tavern as though he were all but a seasoned professional at eluding death

Geoff started as he heard the pounding at the door and roar of the men's vengeful voices, then rapidly followed the squire to what he prayed was their safety.

After a breakneck run for their lives, the two men began to feel their thudding hearts slow once more, the use of flight no longer necessary.

Soon, it would be the gray hours of a fledgling dawn, the sun washing out the cloak of ebony sky like water gradually eroding lacquer.

"Wat?"

He felt rather than heard Geoff's breath murmuring his name, an apologetic sound that he found toilsome to resist.

The redhead had let his companion go quietly unacknowledged for a lengthy period now, the abundance of resentment he was fostering in his breast a constant reminder of how irresponsibly he had wounded his trust.

In spite of this, however, Wat did suppose that he would eventually have to forgive the lout. For the peril he'd so irresponsibly fixed him in, as well as the fact that he'd…

Wait. Chaucer didn't merit any of his malice for something as petty as enjoying himself with a woman.

_What in God's name is awry with you, Wat? _

He started when he felt the subject of his deliberation settle an unconfident hand upon his upper arm.

"You petulant child, will you not simply give me the civility of at least listening to my words?"

Releasing a long-suffering sigh, the squire turned round, confronting the annoyed writer. Though Wat was disgusted with himself for perceiving it, he recognized the remorseful quality of his friend's disposition.

He genuinely did regret everything.

Wat stared as Geoff raked a feckless hand through his cropped blond locks, vexation in his behavior.

"I never meant to leave you to the dogs, you realize."

Silence was what Chaucer was greeted with, rather than the explosion of wrath he'd been anticipating.

"Jesus, will you not yield for once? I can only make so much of an effort, Wat. You're the one that must relent to that stubborn ass's temper you so love to nurture. I had no idea they were on to my shenanigans, for if I had known otherwise, we would have withdrawn from the game and taken our leave sooner."

"Blimey, you really do know how to mop up a bloke's sense of compassion, don't you?"

Theatrically swooning as if struck, Geoff clutched the area of his chest where his heart would reside, sarcasm oozing from his voice like venom when he spoke. "Oh, but you have cut me to the quick, Master Fawlhurst! I do not feel as though I will ever be able to find peace of mind again! God help me, you have shattered my unshakeable faith in the good of the common man."

Wat laughed, an ugly sound that rankled unseemly with the cooing of the morning doves flying overhead.

"How am I expected to forgive someone that could've been the cause of my death?"

"That would be_ indirect_ cause of death, mind. Oh, don't give me that look, I'm merely teasing. Truthfully? I would never have let you die, Wat."

The squire snorted at that. "Of course you wouldn't have."

"I wouldn't," Chaucer said with serious conviction, drawing himself up to his full height at that proclamation.

Not knowing how to react to the honesty in those cornflower blue eyes, Wat fidgeted with awkward apprehension. He fixed his eyes to those of his friend, catching sight of a world of hidden confidences that had been artfully masked from his sight till now.

What the swirling plethora of emotion meant, he couldn't tell.

"Alright, let's hypothretically say that I believed you, what would you do?"

The barest trace of a smile graced the writer's comely lips. "That's hypothetically, and to answer your query… I'd swear to you that I would never enter another situation with you again that has the potential to be life-endangering."

Wat craned his head sideways, not attempting to suppress his grin of pleasure. "Then I'd say that I would forgive you."

Chaucer looped a casual arm about his friend's shoulder, pulling Wat along the trodden path back to their jointly shared estate, the tension waning from their bodies like the ebbing flow of the tides.

**Author's Notes:     **

**A) Yes, Wat was actually the first human being to patent the popular phrase 'shit-eating-grin'. Isn't that quite the history lesson, children?**

**B) I decided that this story needs a few touches of Chaucer's point of view, considering it allows for a much better insight into where the plot is going, as well as his intentions pertaining to our adorable little Wattikins. **

**C) I ask your forgiveness for not updating for so extensive a time, my wonderful reviewers. It was one part laziness, and one part graduation, social pursuits, and college registration forms.**

**I love you all, and please keep writing your marvelous reviews, it keeps my ego afloat and my love of writing burning.**


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